


six steps forward, six steps back

by thesilverwitch



Series: comet observatory medley [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: El Clásico, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 07:24:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3601353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesilverwitch/pseuds/thesilverwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We shouldn’t have lost,” is what comes out because his brain isn’t working right. His thoughts are a mess and no matter how much he tries, he just can’t push the game away.</p><p>“I know,” Toni replies in an even tone, ever the pragmatic; ever the reasonable one. He sounds so calm compared to Isco, who is a bomb waiting to explode.</p><p>“We played better than them, as a team and individually,” Isco adds. Not a lot better. Not overwhelmingly better. Not five-to-zero better. Just enough to make the scoreline seem like the bitter punchline of a painful joke.</p><p>“We did,” Toni agrees.</p><p>“And that referee was a dick,” Isco spits out, all vicious anger and spite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	six steps forward, six steps back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [caravanslost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/caravanslost/gifts).



He’s been pacing through the room for the past thirty minutes. Six steps forward before he reaches the wall, then another six back before he reaches the hotel door. When he gets there, he usually glances at himself in the mirror, frowns, then starts pacing again. Six forward, six back.

He watches Carvajal stare at him with blank eyes, tense shoulders and exhaustion lines on his forehead. Isco feels bad for him. Dani is not made of repressed energy, the need to move and the desire to smash and shout against the world. Dani is all focus, contemplation and the need to plan ahead. After a loss or a draw he prefers to be alone in a still picture. He is not like Isco. They do not match.

And yet they’re stuck together for the night. At Real Madrid, they’re never roomed at random on away games. Iker doesn’t room with Arbeloa, ever. Bale and Modric tend to stick together. The South American squad live in each other’s back pockets and Ronaldo and Fábio are always seen together. Of course, between all this, there is always space for change. Ancelotti says rooming with different people builds team spirit. Isco likes everyone well enough that he doesn’t care who he rooms with, except for nights like this one, when the other person wants some peace and quiet and Isco physically can’t stay still.

“I’m going out for some air,” Dani says. Isco can read between the lines.

“I’m sorry,” he replies. He truly is. This is Dani’s room as much as it is his.

Dani waves him off, flashes him a tired smile. “It’s fine,” he says, looking like he means it. “Illarra owns me a favor anyway.”

Isco nods. He wonders if Dani will kick Illarra out of bed for a place to sleep, or if he’s just going to ask Illarra to trade places with him. 

Dani leaves. Isco continues his pacing. Ten minutes pass in which no one knocks on Isco’s door.

He’s been left alone then.

There’s no food in the mini-fridge beneath the dark wooden dresser. There are various drinks, from water to beer to something that looks like Japanese Sake. Isco doesn’t know. He’s not like Sergio, who was born with infinite knowledge on alcoholic drinks.

Isco grabs a bottle of water—he’s angry, not stupid—and sips on it as he continues to walk around the room. He turns on the television, only to turn it off a minute later when he notices they're showing a news report on the game.

He’ll listen to what the media has to say afterwards. He’s not the kind to obsess over what people say about him. Half of it are lies and the other half is plain obvious. Not to mention it’d drive him mad, being constantly aware of every little thing people say about him, and he needs his sanity.

He’ll still watch, though. One or two news reports. Maybe read an article from AS. He already knows what they will tear Real Madrid apart, as always, but for once it won’t be fair.

Isco doesn’t like to make excuses, for himself or for his team. He’s an objective person. To him, what is is, and what isn’t isn’t. Nevertheless, the truth is that their loss wasn’t deserved. They should have won tonight. They should be the ones on top of the table, not Barcelona.

He kicks an empty trash can at the wall and picks up his phone. 

There are many people he can call. His contacts list is full of friends and family. People who watched the game and would take his call immediately. People who might understand his frustration, but who won’t understand it as throughly and damningly as only someone who played can understand.

— come over. room 708.

Isco sits down on his bed. He can’t stop his leg from moving. Up and down. Up and down. His feet tap on the floor. He sends a second text after a few seconds of consideration.

— bring food

He pushes his phone away and lies back on the bed sheets. His fingers twitch.

The first knock on the door is shy, followed swiftly by a more confident hit. Isco gets up and quickly walks the six steps required to get to the door. He throws the door open and sees Toni, a little hunched on himself, not his usual tall self. He looks tired, but then again, Toni always looks tired with his perpetual under-eye bags and his sunken cheekbones. He’s carrying two bags of Cheetos and an apple. Isco pulls him in.

“Who are you rooming with?” he asks.

“Rapha,” Toni replies. Isco gets his phone from the bed and texts Dani on the eventuality of Illarra being reluctant to give up his bed. Rapha is like Dani after the games. If Dani goes to him, they’ll watch a few minutes of television, listen to reports tearing their performance apart and then go to sleep.

Isco wishes he could be like them. He wishes there was a way for him to contain his energy, instead of having to pace around the room the whole night and driving himself crazy. He wishes he didn’t have a reason to pace in the first place.

Toni takes a beer from the mini-fridge, which makes Isco raise an eyebrow at him. Toni shrugs. “It’s just tonight,” he says. Isco opens one of the Cheetos bags. He can live with ‘just tonight’.

He paces as he eats, developing his multitasking skills. Toni sits on the bed and stares at Isco, occasionally looking down to stare at his hands. Or maybe he’s watching the trails of cool condensation trail down the metal can. Isco doesn’t know. He’s watching Toni’s hands himself. They’re a bitter pink colour and chapped from the wind and the cold. Toni’s gloves do a poor job in protecting them, despite Toni’s best efforts. Isco often gets the urge to take Toni’s hands in his during training and breathe some warmth into them.

They still look cold now.

Isco moves, stops his pacing in a straight line and reaches for Toni. He grabs Toni’s hands without thinking. Toni lets him, of course. He watches with curious eyes as Isco rubs his thumbs over the knuckles and takes away the beer can. Isco opens his mouth to explain himself.

“We shouldn’t have lost,” is what comes out because his brain isn’t working right. His thoughts are a mess and no matter how much he tries, he just can’t push the game away. 

“I know,” Toni replies in an even tone, ever the pragmatic; ever the reasonable one. He sounds so calm compared to Isco, who is a bomb waiting to explode.

“We played better than them, as a team and individually,” Isco adds. Not a lot better. Not overwhelmingly better. Not five-to-zero better. Just enough to make the scoreline seem like the bitter punchline of a painful joke.

“We did,” Toni agrees.

“And that referee was a dick,” Isco spits out, all vicious anger and spite.

Toni doesn’t pick-up on the intensity behind his words. Or maybe he does, and simply chooses to ignore it. He chuckles.

“We’ll make a comeback. This isn’t…” Isco watches him struggle to find the word he’s looking for. Toni licks his lips and his eyes search for the answer on the ceiling, as they always do. “The end!” he exclaims after he gets it, grinning at Isco as if he’s just won the Ballon D’Or. “This isn’t our end.”

Would anyone else have said that, Isco would have wrenched his hands away and glared at them. He isn’t in the mood for blind optimisms yet. Tomorrow, he would be. When they had a team meeting, and Iker talked to them; when Ancelotti let them know what the new plan of attack was; when they had to put on smiles for the media. Isco would be a strong, optimistic believer then.

He is not one now because right now he is angry. He is disappointed. He is crushed. Right now there is no light at the end of the tunnel and Real Madrid is on their way to finish a season after winning only one trophy.

Toni knows this as well as he does, but that doesn’t stop him from having faith in them.

Isco sits down on the bed next to him, their hands still entwined.

“I like your confidence. You’re like a rock. Steady. Strong,” Isco says, the words falling straight from his subconscious into the open space before them. He feels ridiculous admitting this to Toni, but there’s something about this moment that has him feeling disconnected from himself. Maybe it’s because the clock hit two a.m. a while back and he’s miles away from home and the simmering pain inside his chest has yet to quiet.

Maybe it’s because he’s exhausted, but can’t find sleep, and even though Toni’s hands are no longer cold, Isco still can’t let go of them.

“I like your new haircut, too. Very stylish,” Isco pushes one his hands through the blonde bangs, pulling them up from where they’ve fallen on Toni’s forehead. His hair is clean, all traces of gel and sweat washed away. He picks up Toni’s hand again after he’s done. Toni’s hair falls back to where it was after a couple of seconds.

“Thank you,” Toni says, smiling at Isco. He looks like he gets what Isco is trying to say through a fumbled compliment and some hand-holding, but there’s a chance it’s all wishful thinking from Isco’s behalf. 

Isco flops down on the bed, dragging Toni down with him until they are lying side by side. Toni lies near the wall while Isco risks certain death by falling ass-first onto the floor. Toni’s very presence is soothing, like a balm on an open wound. Isco feels his muscles relax and his strings unwind. He closes his eyes and breathes.

They’ve done this before. The first time it happened they were rooming together. Isco kept twitching in his bed, unable to lay still. Eventually Toni got fed up with it. Isco expected him to leave as most people usually did, but Toni is a box full of surprises that Isco wants to unravel, one by one. That night, he got up, shoved Isco onto his side until there was enough space for both of them in his bed and then wrapped himself around Isco like an octopus, forcing Isco to lay still.

He said, “Sleep,” in such a commanding tone that Isco was too shocked to tell him to fuck off. After a while, it felt too awkward to say it out of nowhere, so he closed his eyes instead. He slept.

After the first time, it just became something they did. Sometimes Isco would text him to come over. Other times he’d go to Toni's room uninvited. Toni never pushed him away. Occasionally, Toni would be the one to come to him without an invite.

“I like you, too,” he says now, so quietly Isco would have missed it had he fallen asleep.

He cracks his eyes open until he can look at Toni.

“I like your spirit and energy. Your honesty. Your jokes.” Toni pauses, and after a second of consideration, he adds, “Your hair is nice too.”

Isco grins. “Thank you,” he says. Toni nods, looking pleased with himself.

Isco turns off the ceiling light and turns on the one on his bedside table. He still isn’t tired enough to sleep, so he picks up his phone from where it’s laying beneath Toni’s stomach and decides to check the internet, starting with all the places he knows won’t get a rise out of him. Next to him, Toni is playing SimCity.

He starts with Instagram, making slight gagging noises when he sees the posts from his fellow teammates on the national team. Twitter is next and Isco can’t help but to grin when he sees Toni’s tweet. “‘ _Don’t stop believing_ ’?” he asks, quoting Toni. “You sound so American sometimes.”

“I like America,” Toni replies, putting down his phone to glare at Isco.

“Really? I couldn’t tell from you talking about the Dallas Mavericks all the time or all the vacation pictures you have from there.”

Toni punches him on the shoulder. “You like ‘Take That’ and have a dog named Messi. You are not allowed to make fun of me.”

Isco huffs, wanting to say those things are not at all alike, but Toni’s already dismissed him and gone back to his game. Asshole.

Isco clicks on Toni’s profile, then decides to search for his name on Twitter. 

“‘Barcelona might have won, but good football lost’?” he reads. Toni groans.

“Stop stalking me,” he says. Isco ignores him. Teasing Toni is a much better distraction than browsing Twitter.

“You should be a motivational speaker.”

“Ten minutes ago you were praising my confidence and now you make fun of it,” Toni puts a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”

“I think your confidence is great. A bit tacky, but great,” he says. He turns until he’s lying on his side and staring at Toni becomes as natural as breathing. Toni mimics his movements. They’ve both let go of their phones.

Isco reaches for the collar of Toni’s shirt. He pulls until the fabric begins to stretch, then continues pulling. Toni’s hand reaches for his.

“We’re football players. Being confident is one of the biggest parts of our jobs,” Toni says.

“I know and you’re right. This is not our end. I just need a day to wallow in self-pity before I can believe in that again. It’s not a big deal,” Isco admits.

Toni smiles. Isco stares at his mouth.

He later tries to blame it on the fact that he isn’t thinking straight and that the match has thrown him off in such a way that none of his thoughts still align. He blames it on the weight on his chest and the hand wrapped around his heart. He blames it on the dim light and the way he wants to leech Toni’s confidence and take it for himself.

None of his excuses stick, which isn’t a surprise. They are close to the truth, but not close enough.

The truth is that Isco wants to kiss Toni because Toni is right there, as he always is, and Isco wants him. He has wanted him for a long time. The truth is simple and Isco simply can’t deny it, so he kisses Toni, who is impossibly warm against all common logic.

Toni tastes like toothpaste and beer. Isco traces the lines of his lips, chapped from the cold, just like the rest of him. He moves his hand to the back of Toni’s neck, scratching him there and pulling him as close as possible. Toni moves willingly, sinking into Isco until he pulls back out of nowhere and takes Isco with him.

Isco blinks. He’s on top of Toni’s chest and he’s quite comfortable, if he’s willing to admit it. Toni grins.

They never make it past making out that night, although they get close to dangerous territory. They’re only a minute into the kiss when Toni’s hands wind up inside Isco’s shirt. Isco discovers that night how solid Toni is, and how it’s so easy to kiss him and let himself have this.

An hour later, he falls asleep with his head tucked beneath Toni’s chin. His lips are red and swollen. There is a hickey right beneath his ear. Toni’s hands are still inside his shirt.

They wake up the next morning to the sound of their alarm clocks and Dani knocking on the door. They’re both too tired to be embarrassed at being caught sleeping together. Although, to be fair, Dani doesn’t even blink an eye when he sees Toni walking past him shirtless.

In the plane, Toni sits next to him and they hold hands beneath a blanket.

They go to each of their homes separately and Isco knows he won’t be seeing Toni for a while since Toni is leaving soon to be with his national team.

Isco isn’t bothered by this in the slightest. After all, this isn’t their end.


End file.
